Comfort
by Light1
Summary: Aziraphale has had a bad day, Crowley has no idea what to do until suddenly he does.


**Comfort**

Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to people who are not me.

Rating: PG-13

Authoress note: Sometimes demons give good hugs.

Crowley had long since accepted that he would never be the best demon. There were two fundamental elements of being a demon, the first was that demons cause suffering, the second was that they looked cool doing it. Unless they were Hastur, no number of miracles could make Hastur look cool.

Crowley had the looking cool part down pat. He strongly suspected he was probably the best at looking cool. Not that the competition was up too much. Some demon's ideas of 'looking cool' were so uncool that they almost circled back round to being cool, but never quite made it. So yes, Crowley was probably… the best at looking cool.

It was the causing suffering part that gave him problems. Oh, he could cause suffering in an unfocused, general kind of way, but he'd never got the hang of the focused suffering that Hell was famous for. He could cause suffering via general annoyance by bringing down phone companies or by creating the worst road in Britain. But he could never systematically destroy an individual's life. He could tempt like a champion, but somehow his temptations always ended up being beneficial to the tempted. They left unpleasant jobs, left terrible relationships, and took risks that ended up improving their lives, even if only briefly and in a small way.

So, Crowley in his own opinion was aesthetically one of the best demons, but in substance, he was rather shit. Not that he'd admit that out loud, mind you.

He'd made peace with this self-revelation a long time ago and compensated for it in two ways, the first being by taking credit for things he had not done and the second was by inflating what he did. His tactics worked and had the added benefit that he could continue as he was, playing to his strengths and avoiding the tasks he found distasteful.

But the one consequence of avoiding tasks he found distasteful was that he never encountered true suffering. He had no experience of it, at least not in a close-up way. He'd observed suffering from a distance, but never close up. So, when he found himself face to face with a weeping angel, he had no idea what the Hell to do.

Although that was mostly because of the identity of the angel and not the suffering per se. If he'd bumbled into that wanker Michael sobbing into his tea he knew exactly how to react, he'd grin and probably buy the cause of Michael's tears a drink. But this was not wanker-Michael, this was Aziraphale, who was, most decidedly, not a wanker. He could be a bit of a bastard, but that was hardly a flaw in Crowley's opinion.

So, when he walked into the bookshop and found Aziraphale curled up on his worn sofa looking utterly miserable, he'd stopped in his tracks, suddenly awkward. He hated feeling awkward, he always felt like his arms and legs grew several inches when he was awkward, making him even longer and ganglier. He was supposed to look cool, be smooth, it was the thing he was best at so looking and feeling awkward was deeply upsetting.

"Ngk," Crowley said. Aziraphale head jerked up, his cheeks flushed suddenly red, and he started looking through his pockets rapidly. Pulling out a handkerchief he dabbed at his face, Crowley made a show of not looking at him.

"Oh," Aziraphale managed when he'd put himself to rights, though he still looked dreadful. "Um, would you like a drink?" Crowley shook his head. His mind racing, what was he supposed to do? He was sure there was something, a proper thing to say, a proper way to act, something he could do to make Aziraphale stop looking like the world was ending.

The tiny voice that dwelt in the back of his mind and regularly told him he was a rubbish demon piped up, reminding him that Aziraphale was an angel and he, as a demon, shouldn't give a shit why he was upset. Crowley was well practised in not listening to that little voice and quickly silenced it.

"Rough day?" he eventually managed.

"You could say that," Aziraphale mumbled. "I hate to be rude but perhaps if you could call on me tomorrow you might find yourself better entertained. I'm afraid I'm not up too much today, you'll be frightfully bored."

"Nonsense," Crowley said without thinking as his inner lout took over momentarily and he sprawled next to Aziraphale on the sofa. He felt silent almost immediately as his inner lout buggered off rapidly, leaving him uncomfortable once again in the face of Aziraphale's grief.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you." Aziraphale curled up again and stared off into space. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment.

"You going to tell me what happened?" Crowley said, eventually.

"I wasn't planning to," Aziraphale muttered.

"Why not?" Crowley said.

"Because it's none of your business," Aziraphale snapped.

"Rude," muttered Crowley, pulling a face before falling back into silence. He debated leaving. He had no idea what to say or do, and it was clear Aziraphale did not want him here. But the part of him that had survived the fall, the part that hadn't burned away, the part that got disgusted at the Almighty killing children just to make a point, that part, it told him to suck it up and do something useful.

But what could he do? He doubted food would help on this occasion, Aziraphale looked awful, like he'd been sat inside crying for days. Crowley doubted he'd want to go outside, even for fancy food. Gifts always made Aziraphale happy, but he had nothing, he could leave and get something but that didn't feel right, he didn't want to leave, or rather felt that he shouldn't. He sighed in frustration. What do people do to cheer each other up? A lightbulb moment made Crowley grin.

"The other week I was in Florence," he started. Aziraphale said nothing. "Just a little temptation, nothing to worry about. But who should I see but that walking pustule Hastur." Again, Aziraphale said nothing. "Well, I'm all done for the trip and ready to come home but I don't know, I just can't help myself so I…"

"Is there a point to this story?" Aziraphale interrupts. Crowley stops speaking.

"It was kind of funny," he mutters. "Hastur ends up in the river, people have to drink bottled water for a while."

"I'm not really in the mood for you tormenting Hastur and poisoning the water supply, my dear."

"Oh, um, ok," Crowley falls quiet again. Once again trying to wrap his mind around the current problem. English people made tea when they were upset… or happy, bored, busy, all the time really. Crowley had no idea how to make tea, but he could miracle some. He's about to produce the best-damned cup of tea the world has ever known, but then he noticed Aziraphale is already holding a cup. It's cold by the looks of it. So, as he touches the thin china, the tea is miraculously warm again. Aziraphale sighs.

"I know you're trying," Aziraphale said with strained patience. "But this isn't something tea, or funny stories or anything else will fix. I just need some time, so if you don't mind…"

The dismissal is clear, but Crowley doesn't move.

He's had another lightbulb moment, but the idea he's had is making him want to curl inside of himself and hide. He's a demon, they cause suffering they don't comfort, and he's awkward, all arms and legs he'd do it wrong if he even tried. Not to mention Aziraphale is in a pissy mood and probably wouldn't even let him try.

So, he does the only thing left to him.

It's not his favourite thing to do, he's always worried he'll get stuck. But desperate times and whatnot. So, with an effort of will and concentration, Crowley lets himself change. The process is slow, deliberately slow, so that Aziraphale doesn't cotton on until it's too late. His limbs merge into his body, which thins and lengthens. It's painless, fortunately, but always a strange sensation. He closes his eyes until it's finished. His eyes are the one thing that never changes.

Aziraphale is looking at him when he opens his eyes again, but he says nothing and doesn't object when Crowley slithers up the back of the couch, around Aziraphale's shoulders before winding back on himself. By the time he's finished, he's wrapped loosely around Aziraphale three times and he rested his head in the angel's lap.

Aziraphale doesn't push him away, doesn't grumble, instead he curls up tighter, causing Crowley to tighten his own hold. They are silent together and Aziraphale is warm. So warm in fact that after several silent minutes Crowley can't help but doze off.

He wakes up, and it's dark outside. There is a gentle touch that starts at his head and runs down his long body for a bit before returning to his head and repeating. It takes him a second to realise Aziraphale is petting him the way you would a cat. It's a gentle touch, but enough of a disturbance to rouse him from sleep. He can hear Aziraphale mumbling, his voice soft, Crowley lifts his head questioningly.

"I said, for a demon, you give wonderful hugs," Aziraphale smiles, it's a small weak thing but it's a smile so Crowley lets the inference of his own niceness go for once. He puts his head back down and closes his eyes, expecting the silence to continue, but it doesn't. "Gabriel yelled at me," Aziraphale said in a sigh. "I feel so silly for letting him upset me like this," Crowley said nothing. "He said I'm not what I once was, that ever since the incident with the sword I've been sliding and there will be consequences if I don't buck up."

"Gabriel'sssss a wanker," Crowley managed.

"But he's right," Aziraphale said. "Honestly, I think that's why I'm so upset is because he's right. I'm not a good angel, not at all." Crowley debates turning back, it is difficult to talk in this shape, but Aziraphale has stopped petting him and gripped him tightly instead, changing would force him to let go so Crowley stays as he is.

"Good angel," he intoned, trying to annunciate his words. "Good angel'sss tortured Egypt, killed kidsss in floodsss, watched ssssmiling as they nailed men to crosssssesss."

"You know I can't understand you when you're like this," Aziraphale mumbled quietly.

"Bad angelesss helped Adam and Eve gave them what they needed to ssssurvive," Crowley continued. "I think Upstairsss has it'ssss word's confussssed."

"You can't say that," Aziraphale whispered. "What kind of angel am I?" he snorts a pained laugh. "I take comfort from demons and dread visits from my kin."

"I give good hugssssss," Crowley hissed. "Gabriel couldn't hug if hissss life depended on it." That gets a laugh from Aziraphale, a proper one.

"You're right, he'd be terrible at it," Aziraphale chortles. "Probably worry about wrinkling his suit."

"Wanker," Crowley mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"We should move," Aziraphale breathed.

"Later," Crowley said.

"Later," Aziraphale agreed, settling back into the serpentine hug. It really made him feel better. Who knew demons would give wonderful hugs? Though probably most demons would be awful at it, maybe it was just Crowley. "Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale said and resumed his gentle petting while Crowley dozed.

**End**

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